You're Running Too
by a starr in photo
Summary: She knew how to help him, she had been through it all before and she had done it alone in a foreign country. He was lucky to have her. Prentiss/Reid, mostly Prentiss backstory though. One-shot.


A/N: Still in the same universe. Emily is just so fun to mess with, we know so little about her backstory, but there's so much potential there. I think the writers are really missing the ball on this one, you never get rid of a fun toy. Anyway, reviews would be lovely, and while I'm full of ideas, I enjoy writing requests, so if anybody has any prompts they want to give me, I'll dedicate a one-shot to someone. =] Have at it, Lovelies.

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It wasn't something she talked about, not ever. Even to her old friends, John and Matthew, they knew of course, Matthew had taken the same path, but they never said a word about it, not aloud because that would have made it real.

It had started in Italy; she had been so upset with her situation. And though Matthew had helped her through the immediate effects, she still had to live with the consequences, and her teenaged brain wasn't able to cope. And she had resorted to what was convenient, befriending the wrong crowd just seemed to be what she was good at, and when at a party, Gio had offered her the needle, she couldn't say no.

She had tried drugs before, pot, and hookah, and even salvia, but nothing had taken away the pain like it had. And so she had sought out more, and then again after that, and all too easily, she had tumbled down the slippery slope from wanting to needing. Her mother hadn't noticed anything, being an ambassador kept her busy, and Emily was all too good at avoiding the woman. The need had become overpowering, and she'd do anything to continue using.

When they had moved from Italy, she had tried to quit, Palestine just didn't seem like a feasible place for acquiring what she wanted, and by the time the tremors of withdrawal started to set in, she was out, utilizing every contact she had to get the heroin, because it stopped being a psychological addiction a long time ago. She was the daughter of an ambassador after all; she had just as many connections as her mother.

So the charade continued, the vicious cycle repeating itself over and over. It wasn't until her connection in Islamabad, Palestine died of an overdose that she realized she couldn't continue. She was seventeen then, she knew she had to get her act together, that if she didn't, she'd end up just like her friend, dead. So she collected books, nearly five dozen, and then flipped the handle on her bedroom door, locking herself inside. She had everything she needed, enough food to last her a few days, and a bathroom attached. And for four days she stayed in the room, and she read, and slept, and ran to the bathroom to vomit. She sat in her tub with the water ice cold, beating down on her back in attempts to stop the sweating, and she lay in her oversized bed, nursing the backache that wouldn't go away, or let her stand up. By the second day, she could hardly flip the pages of her book, and she was wrapped up in six blankets and still cold in the hot dry weather. It was horrible, and it got worse, and the third day was the worst of it, but after that...

She stayed in her room an extra day; she knew though the physical addiction would be stifled after seventy two hours, she had to be ready to leave. And three days wasn't enough time. And when she finally let herself out of the room, albeit kicking the door down, unable to unlock the door, something she hadn't thought through, she could finally breathe again. She had quit on her own, she had beaten the odds. She wasn't in the clear, but Emily knew that as well, and steeling herself, she smashed every vial of the stuff that she still had. She set goals, she wanted to work for the FBI, she wanted to be in the BAU, and those goals helped her stay clean.

And when Emily had reached the BAU, when she joined the team, she knew she'd never go back. The demon from her past would stay there, because the high from catching killers was so much more enjoyable than the high from shooting up. But she had seen it in Spencer's eyes, after the Henkel case, she had seen her teenaged self, desperate for just another high. She saw the need, and after he yelled at her outside of the homeless shelter, she knew that nobody else would help; she'd need to be the one. It was dreadfully ironic, that the very thing that had helped her through the addiction now needed her helps for the same thing. But she had been there, and that would count for something.

Even still, as she and Spencer sat in his living room, she didn't admit to her previous addiction, she couldn't, she had never said the words before and that would somehow make it more real. The scars on her arms had faded, visible, but only if you looked close enough and no one had ever gotten close enough to see. She could see the recognition in Spencer's eyes, he was a genius after all, but he didn't say anything either, he wouldn't say anything, because he knew exactly how she felt.

And nearly a year later, as they lay tangled in each others' arms, on soft brown cotton sheets, she cleared her throat. His long, nimble index finger brushed over the pale, marred flesh on her arm and she finally spoke, "I was addicted to heroin. I started when I was fourteen, quit when I was nearly eighteen." It was the first time the words had ever left her lips, and both she and Spencer knew they would never be spoken again.

He just nodded; he had deduced that much on his own. He wouldn't push her to say more, but held her gaze, offering to listen if she wanted to talk. And so the words tumbled out of her mouth, the whole story, every painful detail in startling clarity. And he listened. And as she dissolved into tears, he held her, and though her story was a dreadful one, he couldn't help but be thankful. Her story, her history had helped her see his problem, and that had helped him. It had brought them together, and as painful as the withdrawal had been for him, he'd go through it again to be with her.


End file.
